


On Birds of Prey

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [2]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Porn, Doggy Style, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The concrete jungle of politics was in some respects not so different from the conventional forested one: the chief guiding principle was survival of the fittest, and was sharply divided between its predators and its prey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Birds of Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Collaboration between TheMasterPlanner/The-Crazy-Geek

 

_my love has wings,_

_slender, feathered things_

_with grace in upswept curve_

_and tapered tip_

\-- Tarbolde, "Nightingale Woman"

 

The concrete jungle of politics was in some respects not so different from the conventional forested one: the chief guiding principle was survival of the fittest, and was sharply divided between its predators and its prey. 

It was safe to say that the apex predator in this particular concrete jungle, securely perched at the top of the political food chain of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, was without doubt Malcolm Tucker, Number 10's Director of Communications.

If one listens closely, one can almost hear Sir Attenborough's narration as he stalks the corridors of Whitehall: _"Here we may observe the Glaswegian spin doctor in his natural habitat, subsisting on his usual diet of tea, satsumas, and the careers of failed politicians."_

***

The Right Honourable Nicola Murray MP, minister of the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, would have liked to put the exceptionally strange (even by the low bar usually set by DoSAC) events of last week behind her, but it seemed that even her considerably-less-than-prestigious department was not below the notice of the Party's all-seeing, all-swearing eye, and Malcolm Tucker had just rung ahead to let her know he would be accompanying her to today's think tank, to ensure the lack of any further fucking cock-ups.

Her mind suddenly flashed back to a vision of wings like steel blades emerging from Malcolm's back in an explosion of grey feathers, and was suddenly reminded that the journalists' numerous comparisons of the communications director to an underfed and dyspeptic bird of prey were more frighteningly apt than anyone of them ever realized.

She wouldn't dare admit it aloud, of course, but she found it was quite the turn-on, actually. Oh, yes, even before that incident, Nicola had entertained some flights of fancy involving Malcolm, so to speak, in spite of herself--and why not? He was quite well-kept for a man his age and besides, as an American diplomat once pointed out, power was the greatest aphrodisiac, and Malcolm certainly had power, and a lot of it.  To a woman as ambitious as Nicola, perhaps that was the greatest appeal of all.

However, the funny thing about fantasies was that they tended to be quite different from reality, and the flesh-and-blood reality of Malcolm Tucker had just barged into her office for today's ritual verbal bloodletting.

"Fuck me, Malcolm. You were supposed to be doing media training at the press office. How did you get here so fast?"

"I grew wings and fucking flew."

Nicola tried not to smile. "Very funny. Would you like some tea?"

"What I'd like is to be perched on the fucking roof of Number 10 tearing into a live rabbit for a light fucking lunch, darling. But it appears I'll have to settle for ripping into you again, because I obvifuckously don't have anything better to fucking do in my busy schedule than to hold your hand and make sure ye don't forget to swallow during yer little speech so ye don't end up choking to death on your own fucking salivary fluid on the BBC newscast--"

"I think we have the general idea, Malcolm. I can handle a simple speech on immigration. I could handle it better if you weren't breathing down my neck--"

Malcolm favored her with a thin, predatory smile. "You'd fucking love me to breathe down your neck, wouldn't you, Nic'la? Do not fucking worry about me, right?! I will be completely unobtrusive!" (Nicola had to resist the urge to interject _"as unobtrusive as a man with an eighteen foot wingspan could bloody well get."_ ) "Ya won't even know I'm there--not until I creep up in the dead of night and hit ya over yer empty fucking head with a piece of fucking two-by-four with a single six-inch rusty nail sticking out of it."

Needless to say, Nicola found that assurance not at all actually reassuring.

***

Malcolm had decided to drop by Nicola's hotel room to go over relevant points and make sure she kept to the line.

"I can't remind ye enough that not only are the poll numbers fallin' off the fucking cliff faster than Wile E. Coyote tied to his own fucking Acme anvil, but we are currently located midway up fucking shit creek, somewhere in the vicinity of the hamlet of Nofuckingpaddles."

"You fuck this up, you make yourself look like an out of touch, fucking elite, robot Stepford fucking wife, you will keep the Party in opposition until fucking Doctor Who finally stops airing."

Malcolm was agitated, even more than he usually was during reshuffle, which was going some. He paced around the hotel room, lecturing her on what points to hit in his brash Scottish accent, finally yanking a chair out and sitting in it backwards, staring out the window at the pigeons with an almost wistful expression she'd never seen on him before.  Nicola thought she knew the reason behind Malcolm's restlessness. A bird should be out under the open skies, not cooped up in a cage. She furtively looked around, and when she determined to her satisfaction that no one was within earshot, lowered her voice to a whisper.

"Have you actually...you know, used them...used them to fly recently?"

She was rewarded for her trouble with a cold, piercing grey stare. "Nic'la, were you born this fucking dense or do you actively work at it?"

"I just thought it would be good for you to get it out your system, and--"

"With a tabloid reporter lurking behind every bush like a fucking paedophile at a playground? Politics is enough of a fucking freak show as it is. 'Come see the amazing flyin' spin doctor, £5 general admission.'"

"...all right, Maximum Ride, will you fucking calm down already.  I think I have some Rescue Remedy left--"

"Fuck right off."

"We could sneak you out onto the rooftops. Fresh air and privacy. You can fly about a bit, I know you really want to."

Malcolm started to walk out before she'd even finished the sentence. Damn the woman, she was right, for once in her useless fucking life. The freedom of flight, the rush of wind against his wings, the thrill of soaring through the skies without any need to hide what he was, constantly called to him, the need to be out in the open air eating at him like fucking Blinky Ben Swain at his chocolate supply. "Fuck, that's actually a good fuckin' idea. Too bad you're the proverbial fucking stopped clock."

***

Nicola arrived on the rooftop a few minutes later than Malcolm, as she absolutely insisted upon taking the stairs. He'd used that time to fly, circling the building, out of sight of the ever-present CCTV cameras. His suit jacket and shirt were neatly folded and placed where they wouldn't be blown away.

If she hadn't seen what she saw next with her own eyes, Nicola would have never believed it.

Malcolm was perched on the ledge, grey wings folded around him, messily tearing into what looked like a pigeon and eating it raw. After a few minutes, he noticed the horrified look on Nicola's face.

"I'm nae fucking sharing."

"For fuck's sake, Malcolm! That's disgusting!"

"How do you think real birds eat, Nic'la? Have ya ever seen an owl go to fucking Tesco and pick up a fucking deli sandwich?" He spat out a few bones and wiped away the blood with the back of his hand. "It's just nature, love. Survival of the fucking fittest: the strong survive, the weak get eaten. Do ye really think politics is any fucking different?"

***

Nicola looked Malcolm over. Leaving aside his reputation as the Dark Lord of Westminster, Iago with a BlackBerry, and leaving aside the fact that she just saw him devour a bird raw, he really was quite handsome, in a rather severe way, with thin well-cut lips and piercing grey eyes. His tall, lean but sinewy frame was shielded from the cold London air only by those beautiful wings--grey, like his hair, and his eyes, and his suits, sleek and powerful, each flight feather glossy and precisely shaped.

She allowed herself to take it all in. James, that twat, hadn't touched her since she gave birth to their last child. They were on the rooftop, where no one knew where they were and no one was expecting them for a few hours. No one would know.

"Can I touch them again?"

"Knock yerself out."

Nicola hesitates at first, then reaches up. Her fingers brush lightly against the wing where it meets his back. Malcolm sucks in a breath at the unexpected rush of pleasure that caress brings, and he eagerly leans into the touch. Nicola's hands are soft and warm and well-manicured and they're touching his wings in all the right places, where bare pale skin gives way to downy soft grey feathers.  Every touch from the social affairs minister sends tremors down his spine, sensations of arousal rushing through his body. His toes curl and he's rock-hard already, and he grips the rooftop ledge with both hands to steady himself as he gasps for breath.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"They're fucking sensitive there. Fuck, do it again, Nic'la," he moans, his wings spreading wider and his back arching slightly.

"Are you sure?"

His reply is forced through gritted teeth. "Just fucking do it, otherwise I'll reach down yer fucking throat, rip out yer windpipe, and wear it as my fucking dress necktie, right?

Nicola obliges, stroking Malcolm's wings and ruffling the delicate scapular feathers, watching him shudder with pleasure. Just when she starts to think the feared communications director is putty in her hands, he suddenly turns, grabs her by the shoulders and spins her around, pinning her against the ledge with surprising strength. He's wearing his bollocking face and his cold gleaming stare is both thrilling and terrifying: that of the great bird of prey he was.

She can hear her heart pounding. The strong survive, the weak are eaten. Like that pigeon, she would be taken and devoured whole, and there would be nothing left of her when he was through.

But in some almost primal way she can't quite understand, she wants that, she wants _him_ , she _needs_ him so badly it fucking hurts, she's already eagerly stripping off her cardigan, ignoring the late autumn chill.

"My turn for touching now, you fucking tease," he hisses in that low, husky voice of his, and those long elegant hands and fingers are all over her body, his feathers tickling her bare skin.

***

If you'd told Nicola yesterday that in less than twenty-four hours she'd be up on a London rooftop with Malcolm Tucker's hands cupping her breasts while he kissed her violently, well, she'd have laughed.

She isn't laughing now.

Malcolm's wings swept around them both, encasing her in a sheltered cave of light grey feathers and pale skin as his arms pinned her to the stone walls. She shivered as he fixed his piercing glare onto hers and then swept it down her body. Years. It had been years since any man had looked at her like that – like she was a gourmet feast to a starving man.

He doesn't stop her from running her fingers down his back; Nicola strokes and flattens short fluffy down and, despite Malcolm trying to take the upper hand in this, he's breathing at a rapid rate.

"Touch me," he practically snarls, and her hands stop in momentary confusion. "No, not my back. My fucking trousers. If ye want me to go further, that is--"

She does. It's but a moment for her to undo his belt and buttons and slip a hand inside to grasp him.

Malcolm's wings flare out in an almost dominant pose in response. For a moment, she loses her breath and just stares at what should be a ridiculous sight: Malcolm Tucker, bare-chested, wings flared, and a proud erection jutting from his trousers. It should be hilarious, but she's not laughing. She’s scared to fucking death.

Put a broken halo on him and he'd be the very image of a fallen angel. He arches his back as his wings spread even further to their full span, feathers barely brushing the ground, and then he pounces forward and crushes her against the wall.

"Want you--"

"Please, Malcolm," she gulps, her voice trembling.

Another growl: "Please fucking _what?_ Tell me. Tell me that you want tae be hammered like a bent fuckin' nail up here, that you're hopin' I'll screw ye fuckin' brains out until ye see stars." Her hand has stilled on his cock as the wave of images crashes through her head. "Tell me that ye want to come, tell me what ye want, right now." He grinds against her hand impatiently and kisses her neck briefly. "Tell me what you’ve _always_ fuckin’ wanted--"

Nicola swallows against a suddenly dry throat. "Take me, please. Take me up into the air and just, just fucking fuck me!"

He shakes his head. "Not takin' ye flying pet, do I look like I have 'Ryanair' stamped on my arse? But the rest--" he says as his hands reach under her skirt to pull down her sopping wet knickers, "the rest I can definitely do."

_How often had he thought about this?_ Malcolm ponders with the small part of his mind not devoted to making Nicola squirm in his grasp. Nicola Murray, breathless, mussed, dripping wet for him – god help him if they ever scanned his office for spunk; late night working broken up with fevered thoughts and a quick wank or two, her name choked back in his throat as he came in his own hand.

Fully hard now, Malcolm presses his fingers deep inside her and scissors them apart, using his thumb to lightly tease at her clit. She moans at this intrusion but doesn't stop him.

A gasp and then-- "Enough of the fucking foreplay, I think it's time now, yes?"

Nicola whispers her response. "Time for what?" despite knowing exactly what he means.

Malcolm removes his hand from between her legs and uses both hands to steady her waist. His voice is low, throaty, almost savage. "Time to mate."

He moves closer so he is standing in between her thighs with his wings splayed out above and behind him, shielding them both from the wind and from sight. Nicola asks the obvious question of contraception and listens in amazement to his answer.

"Can't get ye pregnant," he purrs, "you're no' in heat." Before she can ask how he knows that, he flares his nostrils and tells her that being a predator, he can smell the moods of people and judge, with reasonable accuracy, when a woman is fertile. "But," he continues, "I'm not a fucking idiot. Reach down."

Nicola drifts her hand down and oh god, when had he managed to get a condom on himself without her noticing? It had to be the result of much practice. Nicola tries not to ponder the question of just how many other women had been up on a rooftop with Malcolm Tucker. An unwanted image appears in her mind, accompanied by sharp irrational pangs of jealousy, of Malcolm and Sam Cassidy in a passionate tangle of feathers and flesh. The office rumour mill certainly featured that pairing often enough.

Sam is a lot younger than Nicola too, with a body free of the flaws of years of childbearing and the stresses of raising a family, and it was obvious that she was the only person who Malcolm ever really cared about.

Her shoulders drop with resignation and Malcolm looks up at her sudden change of posture.

"Look, I'm no' a total fucking bastard, ye know. If you don't want tae do this then we don't fucking do it, right?"

"No, it's not that," she sighs and he huffs a frustrated breath, ruffling his feathers in annoyance. "I am _not_ going tae discuss matters of the heart with ye because I don't fucking have one."

_But you do, you ran across the room and fought off three men who made Sam cry._

He leans in and kisses her rather more softly than before. "I want ye. Now. I want us to both have fucking epic sex and get fucking shagged out so ye don’t shit breezeblocks in front of BBC’s crack team of fucking coked-up shite-throwin' media monkeys. It's not like I take every fucking person in Westminster up to rooftops tae get my leg over, ye know, I've got _some_ taste."

She blurts out before she can stop herself, "What about Sam?" and instantly regrets it as his eyes go ice cold.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, I've fucking destroyed people for less. Sam is a topic that is off the fucking table ye ken?" He's practically snarling the last few words, raising his wings in a clear threat display. "She means a big fucking deal tae me and not just because she knows how to take care of my wings. She's like family. My protégée. NOT my fucking sex partner. You got that through your tiny little brain?"

He takes her stunned silence as assent and quickly checks his watch. "Look, it's about fifty minutes until your speech. Are we going tae fucking get on with the mating already or not?"

_Mating._ What a cold and clinical word for what they were about to do on this hotel rooftop. But then again, a bird of prey didn’t _make love_.

Nicola swallows and nods, Malcolm's expression softening again at her miniature bow to his obvious superiority. _And didn't that show of submission turn him on even more._ Malcolm does something clever with his tongue in her mouth and the minor disagreement fades away into nothingness.

It is ridiculously warm, being sheltered in Malcolm's wings, enclosed in a grey haven of feathers and it isn't bothering Nicola at all. The light filters in easily around them and there is none of the chest-tightening panic she normally gets when he gets too close.

"Now that ye nearly killed the mood, you can start by touching my wings again."

"Can I expect a mating dance, then?"

Malcolm snorts air through his nose and shakes his head. "I'm not a fucking pigeon, pet. I don't dance, I don't go tweet fucking tweet, an' I don't crap on cars." He runs a hand down her back and ghosts his fingers along her spine. "Well, that's a lie, really," he winks, "I did shit on Piers Morgan's car once."

He shudders as Nicola strokes his feathers again, following them around to his back and running her fingers along the curves of powerful flight muscles and then down to the large coarse feathers on the tips. It's clearly turning him on as much as it does her. She takes the opportunity to gently tug on the feathers again, not too hard of course, and is rewarded by a soft moan from him.

"Good?"

He growls in answer.

She continues her exploration of his body with fingers and lips, her eyes wide with desire and fascination, and at first he's happy to let her. It's been a sexless few years for him, despite the offers that a man of his rank inevitably gets. There's always that nagging worry that the fucking wings will burst out at the point of orgasm and that his partner wouldn't be able to keep their gob shut.

Nicola already knows about the wings. Doesn't mean she knows what she's playing with.

Malcolm chooses this moment to up his game a bit. He's honest enough to admit that he isn't a young energetic lad of eighteen anymore and if he wants to shag up against a wall it'll be better done sooner than later, else his knees are going to give out on him. Nicola keeps wrapping a leg around him and trying to push him down to the rooftop, but he is Malcolm Fucking Tucker, and Satan will be serving _fucking_ ice cream in the Arctic before he lets her go above him.

He soon has her moaning and writhing against him again, although to be fair to her, she's not exactly a slouch in that department ( _there had to be_ something _she was good at_ – his treacherous mind supplied before his libido overruled it again) and her fingers caressing his balls and the soft skin behind them feels absolutely fucking fantastic.

Now. Now they are ready.

"Turn around, hands on the wall an' push that lovely arse out toward me," he commands, and has a shiver of excitement when she instantly follows. With long nimble fingers, he tucks up her skirt and strips the last of her underwear off so she can spread her legs a bit. (Which she does without being told, for once.) Without another word, he then steps toward her until his cock is nestled against her bare arse.

Nicola timidly voices her only request: "Can I still see your wings while we do this?" and she's relieved when he doesn't sigh or swear at her but leans forward, hands gripping her waist, and those great storm-coloured wings sweep out either side of her to brace against the wall.

"Fucking hell," he moans, as he enters her, hot and deep, with a single hard thrust. Nicola gasps a breath as well, her internal muscles stretching to accommodate him and _oh god this felt so good and it had been so fucking long_ \--

Malcolm slides back out of her, only to ram back in again with a stifled grunt, hard and fast. His hand slides around to her front and tweaks a nipple briefly before moving downwards and nestling between her legs. He really wasn't like James at all. Longer, thicker, hitting all the right spots and moving his hand in time to her rhythmic breaths to make sure she had a good time of it as well.

Their breathing grows heavier as he starts fucking her hard and ruthlessly, almost ferociously, excitement rising against the tide of stimulation and wiping away any doubts or fears – her speech forgotten, his need to dominate her satisfied by having her under him and moaning at his touch. Nicola arches her back, the heat starting to grow low inside her. A small _"oh"_ escapes her lips and the great wings rustle as Malcolm feels her accept him.

The heat swiftly builds in both of them, his cock slipping easily in and out of her now, wetted by her arousal and twitching in delight whenever she clenches against it. She's breathing very roughly and squeezing his cock inside her in shorter and shorter intervals and he speeds up the movement of his fingers against her clit.

Malcolm always made his partners come first.

Which she does, howling into the empty skies as the pressure in her builds to painful levels and then is suddenly released in an explosion that sends shock waves rippling down all her muscles. She's flushed, limp with exhaustion, and dimly aware of him moaning and biting her on the shoulder as he swells inside her and then comes violently into her still twitching body. His wings have swept away and she knows that if she looks round she'll see them, grey and gleaming, held wide and proud behind him.

She isn't wrong, either.

***

Nicola slips her dress and cardigan back on and smooths her hair. Malcolm disposes of the condom, fastens his fly and belt, and hides his wings, mentally making a note to have Sam preen them again tonight at the office before retrieving his suit jacket and shirt and buttoning them up. They head back down for a quick shower and change of undergarments. A quiet but stern warning is given: what just happened here would be left here, and never spoken of again. Otherwise Malcolm would flay the fucking skin off her bones and use it as fucking nesting material.

"One more thing, before we go back in."

"Fuck’s sake, Nicola. What?!"

"...Am I going to lay an egg in a few months?"

 


End file.
